


It's home

by Tarredion



Series: fluff for those days <3 [12]
Category: Phandom/The Fantastic Foursome (YouTube RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Established Relationship, Ice Cream, Ice Cream Parlors, Implied Sexual Content, Kissing, Laughter, M/M, Sleepy Cuddles, Slice of Life, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 19:53:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26234455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarredion/pseuds/Tarredion
Summary: A day in the life of Dan and his smitten ice-cream vendor boyfriend Phil, living on the coast of Connemara, Ireland
Relationships: Dan Howell/Phil Lester
Series: fluff for those days <3 [12]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1663717
Comments: 10
Kudos: 42





	It's home

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dayevsphil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dayevsphil/gifts).



> happy late (late) bday daye!! but here ya go
> 
> thank u to my wonderful beta, [dayday](https://peggyschuylerbasically.tumblr.com)
> 
> [moodboard](https://tarredion.tumblr.com/post/628130880579354624/moodboard-for-my-fic-its-home-for-dayevsphil)

_ Connemara Wind Ode _

Robert Chatain, 1973

_ Do not believe this _ the air

Says here, slender her fingers

In my ears and smoke-blue her breath

Beneath my mouth hours from yours

  
  


﹡

Before Dan’s boots can meet the pavement, a cold ocean breeze sweeps across his face. He scrunches up his nose at the sting of it. Two years in Clifden definitely don’t get you used to the smell of the sea.

The coach sputters alive behind him, exhaust smoke thin like vapor billowing towards the grey sky. Lips drawn tight, he shoves his hands even deeper into his pockets and turns on his heel, not watching it go like he usually would.

﹡

He collapses on their tiny sofa with dramatized grace.

A ruse up his spine that he just barely feels, a slight pain behind his temples - there's even a tremble in his movement as he scoots away from the edge of the seats. It’s all a sign. 

His limbs are unbearably heavy, making his head swim each time he moves, and every breath he takes is a burden upon his lungs. It’s a strain, and he’s just.. tired. Exhausted, frankly, and he feels it even when sinking into the cushions, blankets wrapped around him, trying to find that sense of comfort. 

So it’s a pang in his heart to look up at the sound of footsteps and see glorious, incredible Phil, unstyled quiff and all, with a lovesick smile on his face and a cup of tea prepared just for him. 

He can’t help but crack a smile, too (One where the dimples shine through. He’ll be reminded).

﹡

Phil cradles him, becoming a koala latching onto its very own, special tree. Neither will say it, because they like it that way, but it's common knowledge that he’s simply doing so to suck up Dan’s body heat.

“You’re such a godsend, honestly,” Dan mumbles between careful sips, the mug dwarfed in his hands.

His partner hums, soft hands dig into curls, tugging slightly. “You deserve it. Working so hard, even during off-season.” His tone is unmistakably airy.

Dan snorts into the drink. “‘Course you’re the one to say that.”

Phil places another kiss upon his brow. The skin his lip touches flares with tingles, making him look up. “Love you too.” 

Light reflects persimmon in his pretty eyes. Dan’s sure that in the moment, his own cheeks burn just as bright. 

Phil knocks their foreheads together. Softly, they meet, tongues tasting tiredness and sweat and sleepiness and tea, and he kisses back wholeheartedly. 

﹡

Dan doesn’t hit the snooze button the next morning; only Phil works on Saturdays. Still, not used to the cold, empty bed, Dan wakes just as Phil leaves for his shift. 

Clinging to the faintest reminiscence of sleep, he wraps himself up in the blankets, surrounded by the trademark floral scents of the shampoo Phil often steals from him (Granted, Phil bought it in the first place. But when Dan bought it for himself, he never stopped using it. Phil still blames him for that - Dan just rolls his eyes. Every time.) 

He burrows his head, deep in memories and foam. The opposite side of the mattress is particularly inviting, not warm by any means but still bearing the indent of long, lovely, lanky Phil.

It’s not dark or quiet enough for daydreams to go undisturbed. Soon enough, he gets out of bed and dresses himself, trying his best to pretend he has a normal routine on days like these.

In the kitchen, Dan pulls out his phone, noting the bright and glaring 11am _._ _Not too late for brunch,_ he thinks, shrugging as he sends Phil a quick text. The kettle soon boils, and he pours himself a generous bowl of milk to accompany the drink.

His heart flutters a little as he reads the reply through a mouthful of cereal, a gratuitous smile tugging on his lips, trying not to spit it out. 

God, they’re both _massive._ _idiots._

﹡

The bell dings above the door. The two other customers in the shop glance his way, for long enough to remember his presence but not him.

Folding down the hood of his coat (a size too small, because he’s borrowed Phil’s), Dan keeps his eyes trained on  _ him, _ his hair matching Dan’s dripping curls in terms of messiness.

“Good day, care for something sweet?” Phil says, fingers tapping on the counter. The catchphrase flies from his mouth, a second nature. “All you need is love, and a little ice cream.”

“Of course I do.” He steps further inside. Phil’s eyes twinkle, wrinkles turning upwards into crescent moons.

“Obviously.”

﹡

“No matter what you say, it’s still not too late for brunch,” Dan smiles. He reaches out and traces a line up Phil’s bicep. There’s mischief in his eyes, one hard to place, but he knows that Phil will. Eventually. “Especially not a sugary one. And that’s usually  _ your _ thing, Lester.”

The shop has emptied out, so it’s just the two of them. He leans over for a little peck on the lips, and he gets it. They’re usually not for much PDA, but Dan’s feeling particularly sickly sweet, pun intended. 

One cup, he’s been promised. Work is the only place Phil’s able to limit his sugar intake at. Though Dan knows he’s only keeping his record squeaky clean so he’s allowed access to the unlimited supply of rotating flavors. The irony is real.

“You’ve got to tell me what that would entail,” Phil says, one hand fiddling with a glove, the other searching through the drawers. 

He looks beautiful - an apron tied  _ tightly _ around his midriff, cheekbones shaded, a smudge of chocolate on his pale cheek, ruffled black hair, and eyes bluer than the sea outside. To him, too delicious not to gobble up.

Dan lets his weight rest upon the counter; today he’d like to be bold, not bashful. Leaning as far forwards as he needs to reach above the display cabinet, he sees hair on Phil’s jaw and neck rise under his breath - their faces are so close they’re almost touching.

“Hm...” Tone sultry and low, his lips  _ barely _ brush his cheek. “...surprise me.”

The moment is over in the blink of an eye. Phil ducks back behind the boats of ice cream, cheeks lightly flushed, Dan pulling back with a smirk and rosey patch darkened.

Sugary ice gets pushed into his hands, a distraction. He takes the bait, and once the initial rush of cold has passed, asks; “What flavour is this?” 

“Pepperoni and pizza,” Phil chokes out. “They’re new. Sample sizes only.”

Dan hums appreciatively, and flicks his tongue on the top scoop of ice cream.  _ Certainly tastes of pizza, _ he thinks, then wonders why Phil’d have approved it. It is rather cheesy.

“What about yours?”

As if anyone’s surprised, Phil answers with  _ Caramel Macchiato,  _ scooping it into his cup. Dan waves his hand dismissively, looking at his own ice cream. The yellow and peach-pink mix has begun dripping, so he takes the matter into his own hands. Literally. 

“I’m not going to ask-” Dan says, ignoring Phil’s stifled chuckle as he laps it up. “-but I suppose Sarah made you compromise.”

And Phil, he zips his mouth shut.

﹡

Their knees knock together beneath the counter, ankles almost entangled, legs too long to fit properly even on barstools. Long and gentle fingers wrap around his elbow and tug, their arms aligned.

“Oh, fuck!”

Phil gives him an incredulous look. Naturally, Dan copies him. “What?”

“You’ve got to stop doing that,” Phil says. His Adam's apple bobs, and within a heartbeat, he feigns innocence.

“...what?”

“That.” Pointing at the ice cream in his hand, Phil scrunches his nose in fake-disgust. “Treating the ice cream _like_ _that.”_

Dan smirks, keeping up the act. “Oh, like this?” He purses his lips, pressing the cold, melting sphere against the roof of his mouth. Eyes widening and pupils dilating, Phil’s face flashes with a wide selection of expressions, landing on a stern look, and he almost wants to roll his eyes and reprimand him.

But what bursts from his lips instead is unrestrained laughter.

It starts as a snort, growing into cackles rippling across the silent room. He sputters and splutters, almost choking on the ice cream, caught only by a tug on his shirt, an arm around his hip. Or else, his knees would have probably buckled beneath him, sending him to the floor.

Stitches in his chest, they meet eyes, breath almost knocked from his lungs by the crinkles near Phil’s blue irises. The joy so obvious in them makes him quiet down, but the smile on his face is impossibly even more blinding.

They’re still, calm, silent for a minute or more. Then; “Wow.”; and  _ yeah, _ Dan is  _ breathless, _ just looking.

Seems like Phil is, too, ‘cause he hides the blush on his cheeks behind his cone of caramel ice cream.

﹡

At half past five, Phil’s shift ends. Rain pours down on them as they step outside, the lights going out a final time that night. Sarah and another one of Phil’s co-workers called, giving him permission to close early, with neither of them coming in.

Phil locks the door then clasps his hand around Dan’s, soft and comforting, carrying an umbrella in the other. 

The sound of droplets echo’s in his ears. Shadows around them follow, but the fear is in the back of his mind, this time. He’s brave, almost fearless, in his presence, and that’s where he’ll stay, leaned into his side, elbows knocking together, feet in synch.

﹡

The wind whines, rattling the windows. Phil’s already wrapped in their covers, Dan stood by the small open wardrobe, undressing. The light around them is soft, almost nonexistent, but the flame in his head and his heart is ever bright.

He slips the shirt over his head and shuffles out of the jeans, fabric nippy against the goosebumps on his legs. With them off, he breathes a sigh of relief. 

“C'mere,” Phil whines, eyes half closed and making grabby hands. Dan laughs, turning his way.

Led by the crisp warmth in his toes, he pads across the floor. He crawls into bed, slipping beneath the covers, the chilling cold lifted from his shoulders. Lanky, bony legs clumsily wrap around his own, and he melts into the touch. The tension floods out of his body; he turns the lights off.

Phil stumbles to peck his forehead, fingers dancing over his temples. He’s trembling.

“Have you had anything to drink today? You better not have, we were working!”

“Nope,” Phil giggles, tongue between his teeth as he pulls back (not noticing the unnecessary /we/, but that’s ‘cause it’s the norm). “‘m jus’ tired.” And Dan can tell, even in the dark.

Fumbling, he rolls up close. His skin glows, burns. It’s incomprehensible, but the skin on skin contact with Phil..

He rests his head in the crook of his neck, only for a second, letting the thought go. Hooks their legs together, lets Phil’s breathing even out before he pulls away slightly, giving space.

One palm against Phil’s bare chest, he smoothes circles over the knuckles of Phil’s hand with the other. His heart drums, breath fanning across his face, contrasting and warm. They both sink further into the pillows, and he lets his brain go autopilot.

“Je ne suis pas saoul, je- je suis juste ivre de vous.”

He pauses, looks at him. Despite the slight butchering, he sounded cute. Incredibly so. “When did you learn french?”

“I don’t know.” Phil smiles absentmindedly, and Dan  _ really _ does think he looks in a stupor. “Hmm… Maybe while drunk.” His voice is almost inaudible, now, crispy and deep but very much gone.

_ Cute. _

Dan shakes the thought away, (again, for god’s sake,) letting Phil’s arms envelope him.

﹡

“You should wear shirts, less.”

Dan snorts the second the words leave his mouth. He feels just as tired as Phil looks, limp in each other's grip. “And why’s that,” he sighs, pressing his nose into the soft skin of his collarbone, mouth following.

“Because you’re hot. Really.” There’s an obvious pout on his face, even if he cannot see it. “No laughing, I’m right!”

“Uhu…” Dan’s eyelids falter. “That’s cause you’re m’ boyfriend- that’s- that’s why you’re saying it.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

_ “Oh.” _

There’s a lilt in his voice; Dan glances up, taken away once more.

“Hmm..” His bottom lip quivers, his half-asleep expression and softening features glistening. “If you’re my boyfrien’m, you should kiss me. If you want to.” 

He does. 

Closer beneath the covers, Phil, too, kisses him senseless, flush against his body. He’s too tired to do anything but (more or less), and he  _ loves _ it, so he lets his hands roam, nipping and traversing each nook, angle, cravice, scar, and leaving nothing untouched.

The little I-love-yous said beneath his breath is just the cherry on top.

“Better not forget me again.”

“Won’t,” Phil practically yawns, though he still leans in for kisses again and again. “Cause you’re always here, aren’t you. Can’t get rid of you.”

He earns a kick to his shins, and a lazy tickle attack, yet both laugh. He wouldn’t trade it for the world. Not the western wind, not this, not the salt of the sea.

It’s all a part of him - will always be.

Because it’s  _ home. _

**Author's Note:**

> kudos, comments appreciated ʕ •ᴥ•ʔ


End file.
